


The County of Saints

by grassle



Series: My Big Fat Medieval AU [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:08:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8119249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grassle/pseuds/grassle
Summary: Sequel to A Study in Lincoln Green
Basically a fill of this prompthttp://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9100.html?thread=43892620#t43892620Sir John, back from the Crusades, wounded and exhausted and disillusioned with life, hides out in his boyfriend Sheriff Lestrade's manor, drifting through his days. Lestrade hooks him up with barmy young lord Sherlock, who wanders over the county solving crimes, making a nuisance of himself, and nearly getting burned at the stake by pissed-off villagers who think he is a) a witch or b) just really annoying and superior.
John gets a new lease of life, Sherlock gets a bodyguard who thinks he's brilliant, and Lestrade can get some peace and quiet to get his bloody job done, thank you very much.





	1. The County of Saints – Verily, it beginneth

**Author's Note:**

> Hey nonny nonny! It’s anachronotastic! Just an excuse to cobble a string of Medievalicious puns together.  
> In which Lady Molly-Anne joins the Scooby gang.

“Oddsblood, Lord Sherlock, but I grow most heartily sick and tired of all the flagellants!”

Sheriff Lestrade paced up and down the Long Room of the manor Gatehouse as he spoke, his linen tunic draped and wafting becomingly, but his voice frustrated and explosive.

Sherlock, reclining on his chaise, impossibly long legs stretched over one arm, thin fingers steepled under his chin, looked at the sheriff out of the corner of his eyes.

“Lestrade, I’m no healer – indeed, for matters of physic I suggest thou consulteth Lord John – but I would advise cutting out the rich food as a first step. Why, the amount thou put away at supper last night in the Solar! I heard thou didst not make it to the Garderobe after. Only got as far as the Wardrobe, in fact, wherein thou –”

“No, my noble lord; I meaneth this stupid flagellation craze that’s swept the county! The scourging, the whipping, the – where is John actually?”

“Visiting his sister.”

“ _Sister?”_

“Yes. Harry’s his sister. Lady Harriet.”

“ _Sister?_ Not his _brother_? I thought –”

“Indeed. As did I.”

“And I –”

“Quite. As also did I.”

“Umm. Well…”

“Whipping, you say?” enquired Sherlock, after the two had finished staring awkwardly at each other.

“Egads, yes! All the gentle townspeople the length and breadth of this shire who’ve become caught up in this new trend, chastising themselves, mortifying their flesh, trying to ‘touch God,’ at sunrise and sunset, the blacksmith’s broad-shouldered young apprentice, seeking penance in the moonlight, shirtless, whipping his firm, muscular, adolescent flesh with a variety of homemade switches of birch or willow rods he cuts, also shirtless, along the river bank on his lunch break and –” He broke off to mop his sweating face.

“Lestrade, are you about due a visit to the Doxy and Strumpet?” asked Sherlock.

Lestrade scowled and poured himself some mead. _His_ mead, he noted. “I’ve been banned. Temporarily,” he added quickly. “A misunderstanding. Last week. When I was in there demanding Dame Hudson give me manbot. You remember.”

“Let me guess. Dame Hudson didn’t know the word meant compensation and that you were there in your official capacity as shire reeve, demanding she make restitution for some shortcoming or other.”

“Yes. I’d asked her for butt-filling –”

“Was this another misunderstanding, Sheriff?”

“What? No! She promised to make sure the butts of ale were full during the day-long council meeting at the Town Hall, and she didn’t! So naturally I was in there demanding relief. Which I got. To some extent.”

“Escheat.”

“Hold thy foul tongue!”

“I merely mean thou exercised thy right of escheat over her.”

“Thou knowest I’m not into those insalubrious practices, Lord Sherlock. And she is an aged, wizened crone, when all’s said and done.”

“I mean you confiscated some of her property after finding her guilty of a felony,” Sherlock said with an exasperated sigh, raking his fingers through his disordered locks. “Don’t mess with her, Sheriff. I thought that sester of ale served at table yesterday was suspect. I’m not surprised you were taken short in the Wardrobe.”

“I wasn’t! I prithee, cease this flummery about my innards. The last thing I need is for the story to spread and me to garner an unflattering nickname, like the previous sheriff.”

‘“The reeve who would be thane’?”

“Yes! Let us return to the problem facing the shire, this faddish fashion of folk seeking to cleanse their sins and in the process becoming unable to cease flagellating themselves. Ah. That sounds like my Lord John now. He’ll have a solution to the problem.”

“I could not claim to resurrect the deceased, my Lord Sheriff.” John said as he entered. He greeted them warmly and flopped down onto a chair, interestingly windblown from his journey.

“You looketh tired from thy travels, John,” said Sherlock.

“Damn nigh dead,” answered John.

“Er, John, ’tis not _that_ problem I would discuss, but I’m glad you’ve brought that up. It’s actually far from _that_ grave. You refer to the afternoon we were at the river? Well, the water was right cold, icy, even, thou lembrest…” Lestrade stopped at the puzzled stares and changed the subject. “Well. How is your…kin? Fine, I hope?” He sat on the footstool next to John.

“Indisposed, actually. Probably just one of those female ailments that time will take care of.”

“Let us hope,” and “Amen to that,” sounded from the other two men and John looked mildly surprised.

“I refer to the recent death in the town, caused by religious ecstasy? Dusty Miller, an early adept of this new vogue, has died as a result of it,” he continued. “I overtook the carter bringing the body into town from the mill.”

“Wait. He expired during expiation?” Sherlock sat up, eyes gleaming.

“Yes, he passed away paying penance.”

“So he perished on propitiation?”

“Indeed, petered out in his piety.”

“So, he succumbed while seeking satisfaction, eh?”

“Verily, abated amaking amends.”

“Found rest in redress, then?”

“Relinquished during restitution, yes.”

“Well, well. Mort in mortification.”

“Kicked the bucket as he… No; I’ve got nothing,” said Lestrade, sadly.

“ _K_ is a hard letter,” said John, squeezing Lestrade’s shoulder in manly sympathy. “Not the easiest choice. I can’t understand all this bliss-seeking, this search for a high through the scourging,” he continued. “Why would anyone put their body through such extremes chasing a buzz?”

Lestrade paused for Sherlock to reply, but he didn’t, just scowled instead. Lestrade decided he’d better change the topic. Again. Well, he was sheriff.

“I mysen cannot fathom how things have come to this pass. Those sweet monks, spending Lent at the Abby, cleansing their souls with those multi-tailed whipping devices with nine knotted thongs of leather – I wonder if they had a name – and their knouts, spreading religion throughout the populace with those nice processions, catchy hymns, smart uniforms, fun gestures… Who would have thought religion could lead to harm and death?”

“Erm, my Lord Sheriff has heard of the Crusades, I take it?” enquired John.

“The miller won the Lent lottery, did he not?” asked Sherlock slowly. “He won a Lenten retreat at the Abby with the monks and was one of the first laypeople to take part in and spread this craze. Hmm. Come.” He sprang up from his couch.

“Whence?” asked Lestrade, heaving himself to his feet off the low stool with considerably less spring.

“The Guildhall, I presume. I must examine the body.”

“Yes, and I must issue a chit of death, and also issue a chit for burial. And chit for the next of kin to take over the mill,” said Lestrade.

“You’re nothing but a load of chits, Sheriff. For which the people pay. Really, Lestrade. It’s a wonder you’re not as thin as your shadow the way you dash from one corner of the county to another, having no bailiff, or clerk, or steward, or –”

“I need no dismal-dreaming bum-bailey! No bootless, bunched-backed…”

“Welcome back, gentle John,” said Sherlock, in the midst of the Sheriff’s tirade. He reached and flattened his abode-mate’s windswept hair. “I missed thee. ’Twas too quiet around here.”

“Even with all the bangs and pops from your experiments?” joked John, sharing a Long Look with Sherlock, only broken by their Sheriff getting between them.

 

“My Lord Sherlock!” Lady Molly-Anne sprang up like up a mushroom – a squeaky-voiced mushroom – from behind a bale of straw in the stables. “I’ll warrant thou art on thy way to the town, and I bethought me –”

“My lady, gentle ward,” interrupted Lestrade. “The town is no place for thee.” He saw she had on a new gown and had bathed. And it wasn’t even Martinmass.

“Halt hard, Lestrade,” said Sherlock. “I fancy my Lady Molly-Anne –”

“Yes! I knew it was only a matter of time! In thy visage, Sheriff! And thou canst stuff those beslubbering toad-spotted peahens you call suitors, those greasy tardy-gaited snipes who ankle around the manor paying court to me, stuff them where the sun don’t –”

“– can be of use to us in this endeavour,” finished Sherlock, raising his voice over the squeaks.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“How?”

“Lady Molly-Anne, thou art convent reared, so familiar with scourging, whipping, chastising, art thou not?”

“Indeed! I took over Abbess Sarah’s whip duties!” Lady Molly-Anne jumped up and down in her excitement, managing to avoid the lumps of dung.

“ _Whip duties?_ ”

“Aye, my lord. Abbess Sarah’s chastisements were highly sought after. Men would come from three countries away to receive her whippings, to drive out their sins. In the dankest of dungeons she kept them prisoner, to mortify their fleshly failings; often she’d demand them to be stripped of their proud vestments and be as naked as when they came into the world, and they’d be chained to the wall, to represent the earthly prisons their wanton desires created –”

“Whaa… Grrrargh?” Lestrade was having trouble speaking.

“She was so busy I was trained personally by her hand – and she was a hard mistress – to administer the whips and scorpions in her stead, to strap, belt, lash and flog, to aid people in their renunciation and repentance of their sins. Oh, the noise, the lamentations and the wailings as the devil was driven out. As she had no time to discipline the young novices, this I did in her place. Gladly, with vim and vigour. See, even after a few months away from my duties, my arm muscles are still highly developed from wielding the whip, the rod and the paddle on firm, resilient flesh and –”

“That will do!” Lestrade turned away and walked a few paces. When he spoke, his voice came out rather high pitched. “And my Lady Molly-Anne never thought it mete to apprise me of this?”

“Thou likest it not when I dwell on my convent days, when I speak of my time as a novitiate, the hours I passed in my herb garden, my still room, my possets and tinctures, my work in the infirmary. Thou yawns when I recount my promotion to the obedientiary, and the joy I felt learning in the scriptorium, and the library…”

“Well no one’s interested in that twaddle, are they?” cried Lestrade. “But thy ease with wielding a whip –”

“Oh, thinkest thou this will impress the gentlemen coming to press suit on me? Even though they’re never good enough for you?”

“Well, if I’ve refused their claims, ’tis because it’s best I keep thee here a while longer, fair damsel,” said Lestrade.

“And her dowry,” chipped in Sherlock, low voiced. Lestrade scowled.

“To guide a youngling like you –”

“And her dowry.”

“To ensure thy safety,” he raised his voice.

“And her dowry.”

“Shut it, thou clack-jaw!” Lestrade threw his hardest stare at that intransigent young lord.

“’Tis wondrous strange to find myself saying this, but I think it best if Lady Molly-Anne work with us on this one.”

The squeeing noise the girl made on hearing Sherlock pronounce these words nearly deafened them, and all the horses started whinnying in sympathy.


	2. The County of Saints – Verily, it advanceth

“There is a difficulty I wouldst foresee with thy lovely, lovely plan, my lord,” said Lady Molly-Anne, sidling up to Sherlock. “I’m afraid my jennet has cast a shoe.” Lestrade saw her quickly kick what look like blacksmith’s implements and tools aside and wipe her dirty hands on some straw. “I must beg thee mount me, Lord Sherlock. There can be no impediment; I will cling tight, pressed right hard against thy long, lean form and –”

“Sorry, no can do, wench,” replied Sherlock, striding away to a stable. “My horse is not suitable for the carry of a passenger. ’Tis delicate and no packhorse.”

“Lord Sherlock, I’m not sure that’s even a horse!” Lestrade indicated the beast Sherlock was leading out to the aisle. “It can’t be fourteen hands, even. It looks more like a hobby horse. It’s…” He looked hard at the small ambler, its tangled curly black mane, its blue-grey eyes framed by long, upswept lashes and made brighter by the deep blue scarf Sherlock wound round its neck as he petted and kissed it. “That…no. It can’t be. That’s never Thy First Pony!”

“What of it?” Sherlock flailed his arms and jumped up and down on the spot for a bit.

“Nothing. Just saying, is all. You want to trade up. Get yourself a big boy’s ride, and eeurghh! Gerrofff me! John, help!”

John and Lady Molly-Anne rushed to help, but Sherlock had Lestrade pinned to the wall by the pitchfork, its prongs jammed hard either side of his neck.

“No one, NO ONE separates me from Lord Snufflington. Got it?” hissed Sherlock. He waited for a nod before he stepped back and the pair were able to free the Sheriff. There was a silence in which Sherlock eyed the group blackly as he patted and rubbed noses with his steed. “Why don’t you carry Lady Molly-Anne on your beast?” he at last suggested.

“No one rides my destrier except me,” answered Lestrade immediately, giving hard, macho thwacks to his seventeen-hands-high Spanish breed.

He ignored Sherlock’s scoffs of, “Destrier? The nearest thou has been to battle was when Dame Hudson chased you to settle your reckynge at the Doxy, and your only joust was one you got in by accident, trying to get the first fartes of Portingale at the last Michaelmas fayre.”

“Sorry, that’s just the way it is.” Lestrade shrugged an apology.

“Here, my lady.” John patted the flanks of his charger. “I’ll see thee well mounted, even if this beast isn’t a patch on my courser. Which was probably more delicious though.” He cupped his hands to give her a push up. “Have a care of thy henin.”

“’Tis guarded, Lord John,” answered Lady Molly-Anne. “See? I ride side saddle.” She gave him a tremulous smile.

“No, I meant…” John solved the problem by pushing her ornate hat to hang down her back. With a triumphant look from Lady Molly-Anne to Sherlock, they were off. Lestrade had to avert his eyes from the spectacle of Sherlock on that tiny pony, his long legs bringing his feet practically to the floor, so he was just running crouched over the beast, not riding it.

In doing so his gaze fell on Lord John, or more particularly how Lady Molly-Anne was holding on to him, despite being seated in front of him. She’d managed to wrap his cloak about the pair of them, throw her arms around his neck and snuggle into his manly shoulder. Lestrade threw Sherlock a “get her!” look, and Sherlock nodded and rolled his eyes.

“…mouth like velvet.”

“Prithee, what?” Lestrade burst out, catching the end of Lady Molly-Anne’s words.

“My noble lord’s steed hath a mouth so soft, Lord John does not pull on the reins at all, Guardian,” she called over to him.

“No need. It’s all in the lower back action. The pelvis. With the right thrusts and squeezes, you can control even the biggest, largest, most headstrong brute betwixt your thighs,” explained John, moistening his dry lips with his very pink tongue.

Lestrade again caught Lord Sherlock’s eye. Was it possible that John was playing the ruttish puttock with them? Impossible. And yet why dip a pitcher into the milking pail if he didn’t intend to drink? What did that even mean, anyway?

“You never cared about this flagellation craze before, Sheriff,” commented Sherlock in a spiteful tone, the sight of the cuddling horseback couple and the remarks about Lord Snufflington obviously still smarting. “Indeed, it could be said thou encouraged it, claiming it good for local industry as the people vied with one another to have the longest, most multi-stranded and ornate customised whips made. Thou laughest at the poorer folk who cut their own canes from birch, and tried to levy a new stripping the willow tax on them.”

“Oh, and thou didn’t chortle when apprentices started stealing their master’s leather belts to strap themselves, and Jack Weaver had to make do with hastily twisted wisps of straw, and Tim Candlemaker’s trousers fell down in church?” Lestrade thought he’d made his point. “Thou calleth a lewd remark about Revelations, made mention of Lamentations, and advised an Exodus!”

“You were the one who cried out ‘There’s an entry for your Book of Hours, mistress!’” capped Sherlock.

“Which you followed up with ‘That’s what they call Benefit of Clergy, is it?’” Lestrade reminded him.

  
“Lamb by hedge!” called John, and they all swerved to avoid the errant lost livestock as they approached the town.

  
“Surprised you’re not charging it passage,” sniped Sherlock. Lestrade rose above it. A bit like Sherlock on his mini-pony. Which attracted stares as the small party clopped and clanged through the town streets and a giggle from the serf who came to hold their horses outside the Guildhall.

  
“What is that fool doing?” Sheriff Lestrade pointed to the strangely garbed dark-haired man capering and gibbering like a moon-mad milch calf in front of several well-dressed people across the street. “Is that not…Ander’s son?”

  
“The newly appointed village idiot? Why yes, I believe it is,” answered Sherlock. “He seems to be entertaining prospective fleece buyers newly arrived in town, if I read the buckles on their shoes aright.”

  
“He’s the village idiot now?” enquired John as they watched the sad-looking man imitate a variety of farmyard animals, not the noises, just the smells.

  
“Indeed. He was selected for the duty from the populace at large using a reasonably random method, and the Sheriff’s letters patent issued this week.”

  
“Selected? Method? Letters… Sherlock, hast thou been helping thyself to my official stationery again?” exploded Lestrade.

  
“I’m doing what you requested,” answered the smooth varlet. “Freeing you from onerous clerical duties. Loosening the bureaucratic yolk, and all that.”

  
They were helpless to look away as the almost-weeping man picked up some fresh dung and pretended to eat it, licking his lips and rubbing his stomach in pantomimed appreciation.

  
“Actually, the last-but-one village idiot used it as a stepping stone to more weighty administrative roles,” commented Sherlock. “Became Sheriff, in the end. Maybe thou should start looking behind thee, my noble lord.”

  
Lestrade wondered how long it would take Sherlock to forgive him for his incautious remarks about Lord Snufflington. Maybe he should buy the beast some nice blue ribbons to pretty him up. The pony would probably like some too.

  
“I’m not sure my Lady Molly-Anne should see a corpse,” he began, as they approached the body laid out on a makeshift bier in the Guildhall. “She’s gently reared, not like us rough and ready men who can cope with life’s most base sights, and… Oh…I fear I shall…shortly be saying a prayer…to Saint…Greggg…orrrryyyy...”

  
Lady Molly-Anne cleared up the Sheriff’s vomit, led him to sit down, then pulled the linen shroud off the dead body to scrutinise the bloodied lacerations.

“Art thou thinking what I’m thinking, Lord Sherlock?” she whispered.

“No. And this is neither the time nor the place,” hissed back Sherlock, indicating the hushed Hall, the laid-out corpse and the mourners bemoaning the miller’s excess piety, his ritual scourging of the flesh which had led to his release from life via attaining religious ecstasy…

“No, my lord. Look. These indentations and these are different. Here the impression caused by the knot is at the end of the stroke, as one would expect from self-flagellation, but these, which look fresher –”

“Have the mark of the knot at the top! Someone else did them! They’re not self-made!” hissed Sherlock.

“And I don’t know about flailing thyself to cleanse the soul of sin leading to death from rapture,” continued Lady Molly-Anne. “He doesn’t look very rapturous.”

“No,” commented Sherlock, assessing the man’s look of pained terror. “Methinks he died from loss of blood.”

“From the whipping? So thus an imbalance in the humours, too much black bile, yellow bile and phlegm?” asked Molly. The three men stared. “I studied the works of Hippocrates, and many other Greek and Roman physicians, my lords. In the convent.”

“Don’t tell people you can _read_!” hissed Lestrade, looking around in terror.

“I need to flog the corpse myself,” announced Sherlock, pulling a stranded leather whip free of his cloak and leaning in to sniff the corpse first. But before he could even get in a swing, several elders from the Guild and the miller’s son came to remove the body. Sherlock pretended to be raising his hands to the heavens, and the four of them sank to their knees in quick piety.

“God’s balls! Now I’ll have to wait for a fresh stiff!” exclaimed Sherlock. “Still, there’s always someone brought out of the Doxy and Strumpet on a stretcher after lunch. If not from the food, then from the back-room goings on, eh, Lestrade?”

“Thou hast best not commit walreaf,” cautioned Lestrade, ignoring the dig.

Sherlock scowled. He didn’t like being told he couldn’t despoil a corpse. “Not even if I give thee manbot in exchange?” he asked.

“John, that’s not what you’re thinking it is!” said Lestrade in a rush.

“’Tis all fine,” Lord John reminded them.

“Really?” asked Sherlock. “Good. Because I need to flog you soundly with my many-tailed leather whip, make a drawing of the marks, then lash myself, as hard as I can, and thou must sketch those marks in turn.”

“Yeah, all right.” John shrugged. “Willst thou at least buy me a drink first, good sir? And rub salve on the wounds after?”

“Verily. Full speed to the Doxy, and a stop off at Boots the apothecaries. Let’s away! Not thou, Lady Molly-Anne. Make sure Lestrade gets home safely.”

Lestrade did feel a little wobbly. Probably an excess of yellow bile. He wouldn’t mind a copy of the sketches after, though.


	3. The County of Saints – Verily, it creeps on a pace

“Ham ‘n’ rye bread,” remarked John a few days later at breakfast in the Solar, moving slowly and carefully after the latest in Sherlock’s series of experiments.

“Aye, the manor is now making our bread from rye flour,” explained Lestrade. “Dusty Miller’s son put his prices up, the common-kissing minnow, and rye is cheaper to grind. Claims it’s only for the nonce, that he has more overheads to meet for a while.”

“’Twas thee and thy chits, Sheriff,” answered Sherlock, stretching gingerly to reach his goblet.

“No, ’twas not. And ’twasn’t even the funeral exequies – he opted for the frill-free burial.”

“Dug a hole, wrapped the stiff in a sack, and kicked it in?”

“Quite. How goeth thy deducting, Lord Sherlock?”

“I still think that’s deducing,” commented John.

“I need more deaths to confirm my theory,” said Sherlock. “But it was murder, and there will be more, and soon, as sure as April is pilgrimage month.”

“Post!” announced the page, entering with several missives on a salver.

“Thank you, Billy,” replied the Sheriff.

“Sherlock! _Psstt!_ ” came a voice at the window, then Raz’s head peeped in.

“He’s only had a cup of mead,” said Lestrade, wondering what the outlaw was standing on to reach that height. “Though he was ever a lightweight, forsooth.”

“Thought you’d wanna know; another death from that flogging ecstasy craze. Kerching the haberdasher. The stiff’s already laid out. His missus is gutted. Not! Ahhhrgh!” His head vanished. Whatever, or whoever he’d been standing on had given way.

‘“Not Just Hats,”’ said Sherlock slowly, holding an unfolded piece of parchment between his long fingers.

“Oi, don’t open my mail, varlet!” Sheriff Lestrade twitched the paper from Sherlock.

“What is it?” asked John, indicating the epistle and Sherlock’s words.

“An invitation, in the light of the haberdasher’s death.”

“Oh, the wake?”

“No, more the re-launch of the haberdasher’s. With a funeral party. The ‘grieving’ widow’s renaming the shop ‘Not Just Hats’ and starting selling knickknacks.”

“So, no longer toques but tawdry trinkets too.”

“And the good widow is combining the funeral with fineries. Fripperies, even.”

“A burial, with bibelots.”

“A death, with doodads.”

“An internment, with adornments.”

“Sepulture, with sparklies.”

“Going to the grave, with gimcrack gewgaws.”

“Obsequies, with ornaments. And _objets d'art_.”

“Last rites with little gorgeous things!” Lestrade chipped in. They stared. He blushed.

“Well, she did all the work in the store, anyway. Oh, and Kerching was invited to the Lent retreat, remember, at the last minute. He was watching the monks’ devotions with such interest, they plucked him from the crowd, gave him a whip, and invited him for a week. It was a big surprise. And now you think it’s suspicious, Lord Sherlock.”

“Indeed. We must attend this gala opening.”

“Not really our scene, is it? It will look monstrous strange for three lusty, strapping macho lads like we to be at this launch,” Lestrade protested.

“Unless…” Sherlock’s grey eyes shone.

“What?” asked John.

“One of us were there merely accompanying his good woman.”

“Sherlock! I’m not decking mysen out in ladies’ garments again!” Lestrade stood and tried to look stern. “Midsummer dares are one thing, and I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy it, but… Besides, I’ll have to attend as Sheriff. This sort of occasion demands my presence. Thinketh thou to garb Lord John as a simpering maid?” He aimed for casual, it came out squeaky. Almost as squeaky as –

“My Lord Sherlock!” Did she just wait outside doors, for opportunities, Lestrade wondered. “Didst I hear aright, that I may assist further?” she asked.

“Don’t read anything into this, but thou must be my betrothed, for the nonce. All right?”

And there was a crash. Lady Molly-Anne, who could deal with vomit, blood, wounds and corpses, had fainted dead away.

 

“ _Dowry diver!_ ” called someone in the mob on a fake cough as Lord Sherlock led the gorgeously accoutered Lady Molly-Anne up to the store, pushing though the evening crowds being entertained by the reluctant village idiot, now being pelted with rotten cabbage, there being no new prisoners in the stocks.

They ignored the glares of the revamped-haberdasher’s rivals, the silk mercer and the armourer, and the cries of the peddlers hawking their goods as they squeezed inside. There they greeted the embroiderers and girdlers who’d been given an outlet to show their wares in the enlarged space, and the county’s It Maidens showing off their latest hobbies, their twee handmade designer goods, and the local big names.

“What a crush!” Lady Molly-Anne raised her voice above the chatter and the minstrels, the clink of goblets on trenchers. ‘“Not Just Hats’ indeed! Madam Kerching! How art thou bearing up?”

“Call me Tilly. I’ve dropped my married name too.” The brassy woman, whose hair had, Wildly, turned quite gold with grief, smacked Lady Molly-Anne with a playful arm. “Looks like thou’ll soon by changing thy name too, eh? Are you here to leave ye olde wedding list?”

“More to pay our respects to the deceased, madam,” said Sherlock on a rush. “If we may…”

“Oh, the dead sod’s over there. Then come back, and I’ll show you the very latest in Milan stay-laces. Thou’ll swoon! Both of thee.”

“Verily, from these new steep prices,” murmured Sherlock. “Lestrade, come away from those ribbons and cover us!” he hissed, spying the Sheriff through the throng and dragging him away.

“Just getting you a notion for your noble steed,” murmured Lestrade, letting himself be towed. Sherlock favoured him with a cracked smile. It took a while to even find the coffin – it was being used as a trendy display table.

“Help me slip the lid free – I must sniff the stiff,” said Sherlock. A knot of people near them turned and stared. “’Tis the latest craze. Just in from Normandy,” he continued, glaring at the group. “Planking is so last season. Doth thou know not of stiff-sniffing here? What a backwater this shire is.”

“Verily, all the cool Normans are doing it,” lied Lestrade, waggling his official chain and seal in back-up. Eyes brightened, faces lit with interest, people started to move towards them, then there was barely time to sweep the trinkets to the floor, slide the wooden lid off, take a dagger to the shroud and have a good sniff before the space was flashmobbed. It was purgatory. Nay, it was hell.

“Leg it, my lady!” cried Lestrade, taking Lady Molly-Anne’s hand. Sherlock grabbed her other, and they made it through the heaving mass with nothing worse than a warped wimple. Lestrade even had time to snatch up a royal blue ribbon for Sherlock. John was waiting in the next street, holding their horses, and they set off at a cracking pace, Sherlock leading Lord Snufflington and running beside him, the buxom Tilly following for a few paces, shrieking curses and shaking a fist. Lestrade sincerely hoped her words had no power and that the Devil did not put freckles on his foreskin and boils on his bollocks. Or even vice versa. And he could live quite happily without scales on his scrotum, thank you very much.

“Was it the same smell? The same herb or plant?” gasped John as they galloped.

“Do what?” asked Lestrade.

“Oh, forgot to tell thee. The reason people have been so assiduous in their whipping was the hallucinations they experienced as a result. No, not rapture, or visions – medicinal-induced highs. Their whips must have been soaked in some solution which entered their blood once the skin was broken.”

“Stop. I cannot ride and talk. I’m not a jongleur,” begged Lestrade. They pulled over to the hedgerow. “A poison? Why isn’t every flagellant dead, then? Who? Why?”

Everyone turned to Sherlock, who was tying Lord Snufflington’s new ribbons around his neck, a soppy smile on his face. He patted the extra-fluffy patch on Lord Snufflington’s haunch. “Hmm? Not a poison. Just a herb. I think it was cowbane.”

“Henbane, in point of fact, my lord,” said Lady Molly-Anne. “Used as a painkiller and gives a lovely feeling of floating. Or flying, depending on the dose… What? Thou knowest I oversaw the herb garden and still room at the convent. I also studied _Leechbook of the Bald_. Thought it might come in useful, forsooth.”

“Shhh!” begged Lestrade. “Not the book learning again! So some were whipped to death by an assassin while they were hallucinating and couldn’t defend their selves? That’s base! Vile! Why were just some murdered?”

“Why is anyone murdered?” answered Sherlock. “We just have to ask ourselves one simple question: _cui bono_?”

“Where’s…the bone?” Lestrade did his best.

“Who benefits, ignoramus! How didst thou become sheriff? What skills hath thou…actually, I’d rather remain ignorant of those that secured thee the position. Look. You need to swear out a warrant so we can seize the next stiff who’s died from ‘ecstasy.’ I’ll cut it open, eviscerate it, boil and strain the organs, then drink the juice – stop making that noise, Lestrade, there’s no time for your orisons to Saint Gregory now – and see what happens.”

“Erm Sherlock, this pertains to the matter at hand, does it not? It’s not just for fun?” asked Lord John.

“Half and half, really,” answered Sherlock, smiling foully. “But then we’ll have proof, and we’ll get the beneficiary to confess, and thus find the planner of this intrigue. You don’t think two such people as the miller’s son and the haberdasher’s wife conceived this scheme independently, doth thou?”

“So we just need to wait for another whipped-to-death corpse. Well, they do seem to be coming thick and fast,” Lestrade mused.


	4. The County of Saints – Verily, it drags on a tad

One came soon to the manor. Or at least news of one. It would be awful if a freshly flogged to mort body turned up at breakfast. Even breaking the fast _al fresco_ , like King John was said to do. Or even poor King Richard, if one used the Italian slang meaning of the phrase.

“Oh, by my Lady’s kirtle…” Lady Molly-Anne held out the missive Billy had just brought out to them on the verandah. “My poor friend, close bosom of my girlhood, is now a naked orphan in the world, as I am… I must get me hie to rub on what balm of comfort I can.”

“Hold on, gentle ward.” Lestrade made a grab for the letter, squinting in the sun and squirming a bit from all the imagery. “This is from the convent.” He put a finger under the lines of script, and his lips moved as he attempted to read. Sherlock rolled his eyes and snatched the letter for himself.

“But ’tis what we were waiting for! Lady Molly-Anne, cease those tears. Your friend’s parents are dead; get over it. They have. But see how they died? Followers of that accursed scourging practice! They spent the thirty-three and a third days of Lent at the Abby. Presumably your friend has a brother who stands to inherit the…rather large Hall…and very extensive holdings…your friend is leaving the convent whence to return?”

“Nay, my lord. There is only she, now. No uncles, or grandfathers, even.” Lady Molly-Anne aimed a watery smile at John as she accepted his handkerchief and dried her eyes.

“Then we must investigate the estate steward, the seneschal, the bailiff? Your fellow novitiate mentions them not, but –”

“I believe she will handle the domain herself. We had to train in estate management at the convent, but where I preferred to specialise in medicine, she proved very apt at business and took extra courses in law and land governance. Ah, she was ever-so, Amanda.”

“Amanda? Wasn’t she the blonde betrothed to Edward Van Coon, the banker? The man who died recently? Of natural causes?” Lestrade added hastily.

“Indeed. Poor girl.” Lady Molly-Anne shook her head sadly. “That bizarre accident on the moor, with the monkey, and the marzipan, and the mummers, and the mine… But ’tis said Lord Sebastian of Wilkes, also of the bank, will offer for her. Maybe even at the funeral. Please excuse me. I must away.”

“Wait.” Sherlock grabbed her hand.

“Lord Sherlock, what art thou thinking?” asked Lord John.

“He’s thinking, who’s got the bone,” answered Sheriff Lestrade proudly, wondering why Lord Sherlock’s eyes rolled like that.

“Indeed. I fear I must accompany thee, my lady. I will pose once more as thy affianced, lending thee succor in thy distress, and once we have the evidence, we’re out of there faster than the royal court leaves London once the first serf keels over from the plague. Got that?” Lord Sherlock was implacable.

“Wait up!” Lestrade raised his voice over the squeeing. “I needs go with. As my lady’s guardian, it is only seemly.”

“And I must too. As your bodyguard, Sherlock.” John and Sherlock exchanged a Look and a Smile. Lestrade prepared to stand between them. “I’ll say I’m Lady Molly-Anne’s cousin, newly returned from the Crusades. And the wench cannot travel alone with a party of men.”

“I mindeth not,” said Lady Molly-Anne. “I abide here with all men. My lord guardian dismissed my duenna to save coin. I make do with young Billy the page as my dresser, and my bath and bedchamber attendant…”

The strapping young man winked.

“Moving on, we need a widow woman to act as chaperone. Who do we know who is female, elderly, used to mixing with possible criminals and whose personal circumstances are such they can be coerced into a dubious scheme of this kidney?”

“Yoo-hoo, Sheriff!” came a spry but elderly female voice, accompanied by a knock on the verandah’s wooden frame. The group shared a wicked grin.

 

‘“Welcome to Sheepy Nethers, where the sheep is king and men are nervous,’” read Sherlock from the sign as their coach rattled into the borough. “I may have mistranslated that Latin – can we turn back so I can have another go?”

“Aye. ’Tis true. ’Tis sheep land, this,” said Lady Molly-Anne. “Amanda’s fortune was founded on the backs of sheep.”

There was a pause while they all tried to deal with the images this provoked.

“You know, my husband was just the same… I’ve said too much.” Dame Hudson shut up.

“There is little time to turn back, Lord Sherlock,” answered Lady Molly-Anne. “I would wish to arrive at the Hall with all haste to aid my dear, gentle friend.”

“Hang on. If we’re in a rush, why have we detoured into this woodland?” asked Lestrade.

“Nay, ’tis the Park, surrounding the Hall,” explained the wench.

“Are we there yet?” enquired Lestrade some time after.

“Almost at the drive,” said Lady Molly-Anne.

Lestrade fell silent, eying the tracts of land all around, the farmers, labourers and journeymen toiling away, the huge dwelling, and the blonde woman waiting outside, her gown and circlet a perfect match for the blue of her eyes.

“Amanda!” squeaked Lady Molly-Anne, hugging her friend. “Oh, thou poor, bereaved damsel…”

“Good morrow! I just received your letter – the runner arrived barely ahead of you. Quite a party you bring! And a...sweet little pet?” She eyed the small black pony which had, against all common decency and Lestrade's urging, ridden in the carriage with them.  
  
 “I hope we do not disturb your mourning. Or your rather extensive home improvements, my lady,” said Lord Sherlock, settling Lord Snufflington's forelock and indicating the workmen. “I rather fancy my lady –”

“Oh thou dost, dost thou? I’m afraid you’re not my type, lanky. Let’s get that clear right here, right now,” replied Amanda, Countess Woolaton, blue eyes sparking fire.

“– will be having quite the newfound expenses for a while.” Sherlock scowled, nodding at the men hammering and sawing.

 “Ah, I see. Yes, the sheep came rather to dominate in the end, and my parents became subjugated to them. I’m building fences and pens, taking down their tributes. Showing them who’s boss,” Countess Amanda explained.

There was a pause while the party looked at the sheep statues, sheep-shaped fountains, the water squirting though their, well, nethers, yew hedges clipped into the shapes of well, ewes and rams… Amanda snatched some shears from a hedger, and Lestrade winced as with one sharp snap she severed a pair of sculpted sheep’s testicles. She moved to another topiary, and another snick removed a sheep’s head.

“Haggis for dinner, then mutton chops,” she announced. “I’m whittling them down.”

Lestrade could not tear his gaze from the small woman in the lovely blue robe, her lovely blue eyes, her slightly too-big nose and lips, and her lovely big holdings. Why, she made even the least pock-marked of the Doxy and Strumpet’s girls look like a disease-ridden baggage. Wait, they were.

“I’m Sheriff Lestrade,” he began, setting his chain to rights and smoothing his hair down. “Madam, methinks ’tis not right for a maiden to live alone. Mayhap ’twere best if thou became my ward, like the lady Molly-Anne, and…”

The blue ice in her stare froze him.

“But I am to be wed soon, my lord reeve, the funeral also doubling as the nuptials, and will thus have the protection of my husband’s name.”

“Surely thou meaneth the protection of thy husband? Or don’t you expect him to be around for long?” enquired Lestrade, nudging Sherlock to make sure he was getting this.

“For the meanwhile. He will be working in London, not mouldering away in the shire,” said Countess Amanda. “What thinkst thou I meant? That he’s rather…delicate? Scares easily?” She cracked her knuckles, and Lestrade winced and shifted uncomfortably.

“May we pay our respects to the departed?” asked Lady Molly-Anne.

They passed into the chapel, ignoring the bas-relief of sheep, and the tomb, with a sculpted stone sheep guarding each corner, and the odd stray lamb wandering about the place. The bodies were set out on a board, fixed in place on the tomb’s stone slab by a small, triangular piece of wood. It wasn’t large enough, and the structure rocked when weight was put on it.

“Damn slight wedge,” commented John.   

“We need to left alone with the stiff – erm, deceased, to say our orisons,” announced Sherlock. “Lord John, Countess Amanda, pray take Lord Snufflington for a little wee-wee while we do so. John, thou can entertain our hostess with thy tales of the Holy Land whilst thou watches over my noble steed's micturitions.”

The group waited while the couple and the pony left, ignoring Countess Amanda’s narrow-eyed stares and Lord John’s agonised looks.

“Keep watch, Dame Hudson, whilst I strip the corpses,” ordered Sherlock.

“Not your look-out, dear. And all this way for grave looting? Plenty of corpses to rob nearer home. Yes, all right, I’m going. I’ll have the rings and the buckles.”

“So they flogged themselves with a multiple-tailed rod.” Sherlock disrobed the dead bodies and rolled them onto their fronts with swift efficiency Lestrade preferred not to dwell on. “And look – marks of a switch too.”

“A cane. Less flexible,” said Lady Molly-Anne. “Indeed, the marks look to have been made with an implement so inflexible as to have been a stick.”

“Not a paddle?” Lestrade didn’t know why he was doing this.

“Nay, a paddle is broader, but hard and flattened. The stripes would –”

“All right! These wounds have been washed and anointed with unguent.”

“Why yes, because during mortification, one must drop to the ground, no matter how dirty or painful the area may seem. Also one mustn't move if the ground has something on it that may cause an inconvenience. In Sheepy Nethers, that would have been sheep dung, which would have entered the wounds.”

“Lady Molly-Anne! Really!” Lestrade felt green again.

“I cannot detect any strong scent, and there’s no way that harridan will let me gut her dead parents. Only one thing for it…”

And Lestrade put his hands over his mouth to keep down the bile as Sherlock actually went and licked the stiffs. Licked a great big stripe right up their backs, gouging his tongue into the gashes. Lestrade was not successful in his attempts.

“Anything?” Lestrade managed to ask.

“Oh, my,” Sherlock said some scant minutes later. “Is it hot in here, or is it me?” He removed his heavy cloak.

“That will do!” begged Lestrade, whereas Lady Molly-Anne began handclapping and whistling as Sherlock’s hands slipped to his tunic fastening and Dame Hudson left her post for a sly ogle and even slyer rummage in the pile of discarded vestments.

“What in the name of all the saints? Who hath despoiled my parents’ corpses?” Countess Amanda stood before them, hands on hips, not amused by the impromptu striptease in the chapel. She waited while Sherlock hopped down from the tomb, baaing like a sheep. John hastened to wrap his cloak round him.

“This is an official investigation, lady,” said Lestrade, stepping over the vomit. “We know your parents –”

“Became addicted to the sensations of the altered states of consciousness they attained through their devotions? Or even became addicted to the pain their somewhat fetishist practice inflicted?”

“The how much?”

“As Pliny the Elder wrote –”

“Shhh! People might hear!” Lestrade looked around in despair.

“Baaa! Bow down before King Sheep!” announced Sherlock on all fours, the fluffy side of John’s cloak outwards, butting his head into John and trying to make him and the stray lambs kneel before him.

“Lord Sherlock has ingested henbane from your parents’ corpses. Don’t ask how,” said Lady Molly-Anne. “He’s a consulting alchemist, and we’re not really engaged, Manda.”

“Thank the Lord! You could do better than that lanky streak of pissprophet, Molls.”

“But I do love him.”

“Oh. Sorry. Well, I suppose there’s not much choice round here, is there? I mean, thou hath seen a likeness of my lord Sebastian. And his teeth. I’m in no position to criticise.”

“Well. But, my dear friend, how could thee act so basely? I can understand wishing for freedom from oppressive guardians, but…”

“Oi! I’m liberal! I let you attend mass at whatever time of day you chuse!” cried Lestrade. “Seems to me the countess, as a convent-reared girl, ought to remember the tenth commandment.”

“Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's ass? I don’t.”

“I meant the seventh.”

“Thou shalt not commit adultery? I haven’t.”

“Sherlock, help. I was never very good at book learning!” yelled Sheriff Lestrade, but Sherlock was lying on his back with his legs in the air, making soft baa sounds, calling himself a poor lost lamb, and demanding John stroke his fleece.

“I presume you mean numbers five and six. I have honoured my mother and father and I haven’t committed murder.” Amanda was ice cold. “I have laid a cunning trap, and when the real architect of the murders plaguing the county comes for his payment at midnight, thou canst catch him. Probably.”

“But that’s double-crossing! And your poor parents!”

“Apparently. And they died that others might live. It’s what they would have wanted. Probably.”

“That’s…I’m confused.” Lestrade sank to the floor, narrowly missing the vomit. And the lambs.

“Look, I’ll explain it all to Lady Molly-Anne, and she can explain it all to you, in simple words, or by drawing little pictures. All right?” Amanda sneered, and the young ladies left.

“ _Phwoar._ She’s a bit of all right. Pretty as a May morning, and all those nice big holdings.” Lestrade craned his neck to follow their path.

“She’s an evil, cold-hearted schemer,” replied John.

“Well, no one’s perfect.”

“I am, aren’t I, John? Me and Lord Snufflington. We’re perfect, for you.” Seemed Lord Sherlock had recovered the power of human speech.

John smiled and rubbed his knuckles in Sherlock’s curls before helping him stand.

“Come on. Let’s stick thy head in a tub of fish guts to sober thee up. We’ve a murderer to catch, and the stage must be set.”

“Not your vomit cleaner,” muttered Dame Hudson, getting down to work, making the chapel ready for the showdown. “Except I am. Huh. On my knees dealing with men’s waste products. Might as well be back at the Doxy.”


	5. The County of Saints – Verily, it peters out rather

Midnight chimed. The small man crept from the chapel shadows towards the taller figure near the altar, its blue dress silvered enchantingly by a moonbeam.

“Lady Amanda! Countess Woolaton, I suppose I should say NOW!” exclaimed the man. “Must say you’ve lost WEIGHT since the deaths. And gained HEIGHT? And what’s that reek of fish guts, and vomit? You’re a slatternly housewife, my lady.”

“I’m _really_ not.” And Lord Sherlock turned and stepped fully into the light, backlit just so by the silver light.

“We meet again, Lord Sherlock of Holmes! And why are you in a DRESS? Am I catching you at a busy moment?” enquired the smaller of the two, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels. “Not that it doesn’t SUIT you, especially with you framed in that argent splendour like that.”

“Yes, but that’s beside the point… Doth thou think so?” replied Sherlock. “I did put a lot of effort into choosing the hue…”

“Harebell.”

“Exactly! And people just look and go, ‘Oh, bluebell. Nice.’ Oddsblood!”

“People. They knoweth nothing. That shimmer effect, enhanced by you standing in exactly the right spot for that play of moonlight, I’m supposing…that fabric, woven on a double loom?”

“’Tis cert!”

“And that line – princess? Cut on the bias, I’m guessing. You’ve the height for it. I couldn’t…”

He made a self-deprecating gesture at his stature.

“Still, that lovely big chaperon hat, with the liripipe draped over one side like that, adds inches,” said Lord Sherlock kindly.

“I KNOW, right! I’m praying to St Anthony of Padua EVERY NIGHT that this style is in ALL season. I mean, if those pointed Robin Hood caps come back in, it’s ‘oh bonjour, Monsieur Dwarf, getting much work in the sideshows?’ Name me one person those STUPID triangular caps suit. Go on. See? You can’t. Can’t be done.”

There was an awkward silence. The man grinned. Sherlock coughed. A sheep baaed.

“Anyway. Strolling on. I know you’re behind this plot, these murders. Why?”

“Why NOT?” replied the man. “I’ve always been good at ideas, and others pay me for them. I’m just providing a service, really. Plus whipping insensible idiots to death has always been a bit of a hobby of mine. Making money from a PASTIME is just win WIN.”

“And now you lose!” And Lord Sherlock took out his weapon of choice, the pitchfork, but the other man fled, cackling into the night and only stumbling over a few tups and wethers. And sheep. “Guards! He’s getting away!” Sherlock cried, hampered by the train of his really rather nice gown. And the slightly contrasting mantle.

“Sorry, sorry,” replied John eventually, ambling up, followed by Lestrade. “I forgot I was on ye old lookout. Didst thou say the codeword? And what was it again?”

“Fine bodyguard thou art! And such a vigilant sheriff. The county is safe in thy pottle-pitted hands. Not!” Lord Sherlock was working himself up to an almighty John of Patmos-style tantrum.

“Yes, sorry, just having a spot of supper with Amanda, Countess Woolaton, while you tried on her dresses, and we…” Lord John trailed off at the flame kindling in Lord Sherlock’s eye and passed the metaphorical cudgel to his reeve.

 “And we lost track of time, yeah, what with her teaching us some of the tricks she picked up in the convent. She was showing us double entry.”

“ _What!_ ”

“A new method of bookkeeping. And the use of hot candle wax.”

“ _Again, what!_ ”

“Using wax tablets for scrivening, instead of parchment. And you did take ages, selecting and discarding many choices of robe and accessories. Not to mention makeup. Oh, hath the villain gone?” asked Lestrade.

“Where are all the young men of the estate, all the well-muscled farmers and labourers I instructed to lay hidden in the moonlight, rolled in mud and daub as disguise and naked for increased speed and ease, ready to spring up and do my bidding as I shouted the watchword?” yelled Lord Sherlock.

“Yeah, they just assumed thou hadst something else in mind. Verily, my lord, thou reeketh of fish and art berobed as if for a high holiday; the young men of the land were sore afeared and have sought refuge at the butts.”

“Methinks thy reputation as a sorcerer hath gone before thee,” added John, soothingly, getting a cracked, crazed twist of the lips in reply.

But as much as Lord Sherlock waved his arms about and jumped up and down on the spot, the smooth criminal had of course long vanished. Into the moonlit mist.

“Arrest the villainess, the newly minted Countess!” he yelled.

“Seems a bit…rude, don’t you think?” asked Lestrade. “I mean, she gave us a lovely supper, she’s putting us up for a few days, in a bed and everything, not just on fresh straw and rushes, she’s going to show me how to embiggen my sac, and well, I think I’m in there.” He gave a wink so clicky it startled the nearest lambs.

“Damn increasing the size of your jurisdiction in matters of dispute! And she’s betrothed to another, who she’ll most likely dispatch, having used you as a warm-up!”

“Like I said, no one’s perfect.”

“ _Arrgghhh!_ ” screamed Lord Sherlock

“It’s all right,” said Lord John. “We’ll wait for another chastised-to-cessation corpse and catch that cunning Celt collecting coin off the cestui then. Bound to be one. Come on. You’ve had a busy day of it, choosing such a pretty frock and all. Let’s get thee back to the Bakerstreete manor Gatehouse for a nice rest.”

And so the two set off for a bloody long walk in the moonlight, John’s cloak, Lord Snufflington’s ribbons and Sherlock’s dress, which Amanda had insisted he keep, trailing behind them in slo-mo, and the little lambs which Sherlock had bonded with when he was whacked out of his gourd, and which Amanda had insisted he also keep, trailing behind them also. Seemed to be becoming a bit of a thing. Seemed their family was increasing. But that’s another tale. And we haven’t even _met_ Harry yet.  

  
  



End file.
